Thirteen Reasons Why(43)

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

“And the boy?” I asked. “What does he represent?”

It’s me. Oh God. It’s me. I know that now.

I cover my ears. Not to block any outside noise. The diner is almost completely silent. But I want to feel her words, all of them, as they’re said.

While I waited for your answer, I searched my backpack for tissue. At any moment, I knew I might cry.

You told me that no boy was overlooking me more than I was overlooking myself. At least, that’s what you thought it meant. And that’s why you asked about the poem. You felt it went deeper than even you could figure out.

Well, Ryan, you were right. It went much, much deeper than that. And if you knew that—if that’s what you thought—then why did you steal my notebook? Why did you print my poem, the poem that you yourself called “scary” in the Lost-N-Found? Why did you let other people read it?

And dissect it. And make fun of it.

It was never a lost poem, Ryan. And you never found it, so it did not belong in your collection.

But in your collection is exactly where other people found it. That’s where teachers stumbled across it right before their lectures on poetry. That’s where classrooms full of students cut up my poem, searching for its meaning.

In our class, no one got it right. Not even close. But at the time, we all thought we did. Even Mr. Porter.

Do you know what Mr. Porter said before handing out my poem? He said that reading a poem by an unknown member of our school was the same as reading a classic poem by a dead poet. That’s right—a dead poet. Because we couldn’t ask either one about its true meaning.

Then Mr. Porter waited, hoping someone would fess up to writing it. But that, as you know, never happened.

So now you know. And for those of you who need a refresher, here it is. “Soul Alone” by Hannah Baker.



I meet your eyes





you don’t even see me





You hardly respond





when I whisper





hello





Could be my soul mate





two kindred spirits





Maybe we’re not





I guess we’ll never





know





My own mother





you carried me in you





Now you see nothing





but what I wear





People ask you





how I am doing





You smile and nod





don’t let it end





there





Put me





underneath God’s sky and





know me





don’t just see me with your eyes





Take away





this mask of flesh and bone and





see me





for my soul





alone





And now you know why.

So, did your teachers dissect me properly? Were they right? Did you have any clue at all it was me?

Yes, some of you did. Ryan must have told someone—proud that his collection made it into the curriculum. But when people confronted me, I refused to confirm it or deny it. Which pissed some of them off.

Some even wrote parodies of my poem, reading them to me in the hopes of getting under my skin.

I saw that. I watched two girls in Mr. Porter’s class recite a version before the bell rang.

It was all so stupid and childish…and cruel.

They were relentless, bringing new poems every day for an entire week. Hannah did her best to ignore them, pretending to read while waiting for Mr. Porter to arrive. For the start of class to come to her rescue.

This doesn’t seem like a big deal, does it?

No, maybe not to you. But school hadn’t been a safe haven of mine for a long time. And after your photo escapades, Tyler, my home was no longer secure.

Now, suddenly, even my own thoughts were being offered up for ridicule.

Once, in Mr. Porter’s class, when those girls were teasing her, Hannah looked up. Her eyes caught mine for just a moment. A flash. But she knew I was watching her. And even though no one else saw it, I turned away.

She was on her own.

Very nice, Ryan. Thank you. You’re a true poet.





I pull the headphones out of my ears and hang them around my neck.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” the man says from across the counter, “but I’m not taking your money.” He blows into a straw and pinches both ends shut.

I shake my head and reach back for my wallet. “No, I’ll pay.”

He winds the straw tighter and tighter. “I’m serious. It was only a milkshake. And like I said, I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know how I can help, but something’s clearly gone wrong in your life, so I want you to keep your money.” His eyes search mine, and I know he means it.